


Nevermore - a coffee shop AU

by paperstorms



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Climbing Class, Coffee Shop, College, M/M, No Spoilers, gay! Chris, happy endings, no ones dead, wing man! Ashley, writer! Josh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-23 18:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4888186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperstorms/pseuds/paperstorms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Working long hours at a coffee shop in Blackwood Pines to pay for college, Chris falls for a horror novelist with very real demons of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my Tumblr at http://NyxRising.tumblr.com - enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on my Tumblr at [NyxRising](http://NyxRising.tumblr.com) \- enjoy!

On days when he’s working, Chris’ routine never changes. Up at seven on Saturday morning, he gets half an hour of solid reading in before he has to shower. Sometimes it’s novels, but more recently it’s been textbooks all the way, because his lecturers are really laying it on heavy this semester. Then, a quick wash - has to be before seven thirty five, because his grumpy roommate Mike is not willing to negotiate waiting when he gets back from his morning run, and he showers for far too long for Chris to wait until he’s finished. Then it’s teeth, uniform, and - oh, he’s burned it again - toast. He pulls on his boots and grabs his keys as he runs out the door, always late, no matter how hard he tries.

Lenore Coffeehouse is four blocks from his student digs, and he reaches the doors at half eight, just about. He lets himself in. From there, he gets the lights on, wipes the counters down, and carries the tables outside. They’re heavy, and Chris is impressed with himself, because after four months of this, he can almost see definition in his arm when he flexes. Then it’s the black and white awning, grinding the coffee beans, and finally, as the clock hits nine, he flips the sign. Open for business.

The shop is pretty small; wooden floors and dark red panelled walls making it look more cramped than it should. One of them is covered with floor to ceiling bookshelves, littered with second-hand novels and trinkets collected over the years, some left behind by customers, others brought in by the owners and staff. Another wall has a community noticeboard, mainly plastered with flyers for college football games, open mic nights and study groups. Overall, it looks pretty grungy, but Chris likes that. All of the chairs and tables are mismatched, picked up at yard sales and vintage shops, and the menu is written up on a huge chalkboard behind the bar. It’s unique, and it’s cosy.

All day, it’s regulars; students in the morning, a gaggle of mums with their babies, and the old ladies at lunch time who’d rather eat local than at one of the chain coffee shops in the centre of the town. More students, in and out in swarms in the breaks between classes, and a few loners, after a little peace and quiet and a comfy chair. He only knows a handful of them by name, but he recognizes their faces time and time again.

Blackwood Pines is a small town.

He’s usually in anyway, on his days off. He brings his laptop and sits at the bar, headphones on, drinking all the free coffee he can handle whilst he studies.

Lunch is at twelve, or one, or sometimes two if it’s really busy; Chris grabs a sandwich and does some more reading, but this golden hour is for him. He keeps his well-thumbed novels behind the counter; stacks of crime thrillers, science fiction and trash fantasy. If he runs out, the shop has a free book policy on it’s shelves, and he always donates his own when he’s finished, with sticky notes on the covers, rating the read.

If he’s closing too, Chris hangs around later than he needs to; doesn’t hurry to usher customers out. He’s more than two thousand kilometers from his parents, and Lenore is his second home.

At about quarter past ten, his red-headed counterpart joins him. The coffee shop is all but empty, save two college girls nattering away in the window seat.

“Hey, Ash,” Chris teases, eyebrow raised. “What time do you call this?”

“I know,” she says, hurrying over to him, clutching her unzipped rucksack in one hand. She’s adorable - he’s always thought so - and the most understanding person he knows. She’s helped him figure out a lot about himself in the last few months, not to mention keeping him on top of his classes. “I know. I am so late. Again. I’m sorry, Chris.”

He laughs, waving it off as he lifts the counter hatch to let her in; she was probably caught up studying. “No big deal. As you can see, we’re heaving and I am totally unable to cope.”

Playfully, she smacks him as she passes. “Shut up, Chris.”

“Seeing as you owe me now, I’m going to take five, alright?”

Sliding a book out from under the counter, he ducks out and buries himself in the armchair by the bookcase. Ashley leans over to him, trying to catch a glimpse of the title as she puts on her apron. Paging through to his sugar packet bookmark, Chris loses himself in the pages of the five dollar fantasy romance, chuckling as he leafs through the terrible story.

Chris gives himself longer than five minutes, because it’s quiet; for a short, peaceful time, it’s blissfully quiet, just the ambience of the girls’ inane chatter, the dishwasher whirring and Ashley scrubbing down the counters. Then, rudely, he’s interrupted by the bell above the door. 

He’s never seen the guy who enters before. He’s sort of short, clad in blue flannel and a body warmer, grey beanie hanging off the back of his head. Chris notices his tan skin, exotic eyes - the guy looks shattered. He’s carrying a laptop bag over his shoulder, and as soon as he’s inside, he shoves both his hands into his jeans pockets, looking around with a judging frown.

“I’ve got it!” Chris hollers back to Ashley, as she hurries out of the back, wiping her hands on her apron. She throws him grateful look and turns her attention back to restocking. Chris swings back behind the counter, straightening his uniform as he puts on his best customer smile.

Chewing on his bottom lip, the guy stands in front of the counter, staring absently at the menu. Chris has learned to be patient. As he waits, he studies his face. The guy looks around their age, but his eyes say different, like he’s seen a lot. He doesn’t look like a student.

After more than a minute of awkward silence, he finally speaks. “Do you… have wifi?”

“Oh,” Chris pauses, genuinely surprised he’s taken that long just to ask that. He puts on his best serious face. “Not here, I’m afraid. See, this is an authentic, 19th Century coffee shop? We don’t actually allow technology in the building. It’s… listed.”

The customer squints at him, sizing him up, before finally cracking a smile. “Funny. I’ll buy something.”

“Alright,” Chris hums thoughtfully, drumming his hands on the counter. “I guess I can make an exception just this once. What can I get you?”

Ordering a large black coffee, the guy pays with a palmful of crumpled dollars and takes a seat in the far corner, pulling his feet up onto the big leather chair, curled up like a pretzel. Chris watches him as he straightens out the cash, tucking it into the till. He wonders where he comes from, where he’s staying. Wonders why he looks so lost as he gets out his laptop and starts tapping away at the keys.

Scribbling the wifi key on a napkin, he brings it over with the coffee, setting them down on the table and sliding the note over to him like it’s a secret code. “Here you go - just don’t tell anyone, okay? Next thing you know, there whole neighbourhood’s going to be in here protesting our technological advances.”

The guy chuckles softly, peering over the screen of his laptop, and Chris can’t help but notice what a nice smile it is; he tries not to let his eyes linger too long. The guy reaches around, eyes darting back and forth suspiciously as he sweeps up the napkin. “Your secret is safe with me.”

When Chris returns to the bar with a big smile on his own face, Ashley is giving him a funny look. He sticks his tongue out at her. “What?”

“Did that guy really just laugh at one of your jokes?”

“Shut up,” he laughs, gently shoving her. “I’m a very funny person. The funniest.”

She pats him on the shoulder, going back to making herself a drink. “And who told you that?”

“My mom, I’ll have you know,” he quips. “She’s very proud of me.”

The day drags on, and Chris finds himself watching the guy type, who stays transfixed on his laptop without looking up for most of the afternoon. A bunch of their regular customers come and go through the day, some chatting at the bar, helping him pass the time. Ashley kills the rest of their time telling him about her college classes, and a new friend she’s made called Sam, who wants to take her hiking.

Ashley is definitely not a hiker, but she seems to have convinced herself that she might be.

“What do you think he’s doing?” She asks, an hour or so later. “I don’t think he’s looked up, even once.”

“Who?” Chris says absently, resting his elbows on the counter, his head cupped in his hands.

Ashley prods his cheek. “The guy you keep staring at. Plaid Shirt.”

Rolling his eyes, Chris makes a point to look anywhere else in the room except at the customer, finding himself suddenly very interested in the light fittings. “I am not staring, Ash. I’m just like…”

“Staring.”

“Okay, but absently.”

She smirks knowingly. “I bet he’s a serial killer. He’s luring in his victims online.”

“Ashley!” Chris laughs under his breath. “Somehow, I struggle to believe that.”

“They say serial killers look just like everyone else, right? But he’s got a funny tick. Watch,” She continues, subtly pointing over the bar. Chris looks back to him; he’s still typing, but every time he pauses, he starts tapping his foot quickly against the chair, wincing a little like he’s not had enough sleep to be staring at a screen like he is. Chris scoffs.

“And you’re saying I’m staring at him,” he laughs again, grabbing a cloth and wiping down the coffee machine again just for something to distract himself with. “He’s probably writing. You do weird things when you write. Maybe he’s a blogger or something.”

“Or a serial killer. He’s got predator eyes. Don’t you think?”

“You know what I think, Ash? I think you need to put a leash on that imagination before it bites a small child.”

Chris takes his lunch at half one, but his favourite seat is occupied; he ends up sitting a couple of tables down from Plaid Shirt guy. He eats his cheese and ham toastie slowly, nose in his book, but he can see the guy in his peripheral and finds himself reading the same paragraph over and over again.

The guy is sucking in his lip as he types, deep in thought, front teeth worrying at it. His eyes flicker back and forth across the screen, and he’s hesitant for a while, before he starts hammering on the keys again. Chris is hopelessly distracted. He tells himself the novel isn’t really that good, otherwise he’d be able to concentrate. Tomorrow, he vows, he’ll bring in another book.

As he finishes up his food, he chances one more glance, but the writer is already staring back at him. Their eyes meet, and awkwardly, he tries a polite smile before jerking his head away. The guy’s gaze burns into the back of his neck as he clears his plate away. He stuffs the unfinished novel onto the bookshelf without a review.

When half three rolls around, Lenore is buzzing with after class college customers, as usual. The guy finally gets up; he glances at the clock and snaps his laptop shut suddenly, before hurrying out without a word. Chris is a little shocked, but he can’t help breathing a sigh of relief as he watches him go.  
Ashley elbows him gently in the side.

“You look like a frightened animal,” she teases. “Did you get his number, or what?”

“What?” Chris laughs, eyebrows raised as he swings his head around to . He goes a red; a full face blush that starts at his ears. He can never avoid it, and Ashley has to cover her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. “No! I-”

“You spent about five hours staring at him, Chris. You’re wearing your glasses - you know exactly what you were looking at,” she giggles, shaking a knowing finger at him.

He tutts, adjusting his glasses. “Whatever. I think they must be broken. Besides, I didn’t even get his name.”

The smug look spreading across Ashley’s face worries him more than he’s willing to admit. She puts her hands on her hips, looking far too proud of herself. “No problem, because I did.”

“ _What._ ”

“It’s Josh,” she says proudly.

“How the hell do you-”

“A lady,” Ashley says, nudging him again with her elbow, harder this time. “Never tells. If he comes back, I’m giving him your phone number. You’re such a wuss.”

She can’t contain her laughter this time, as the blush spreads to his ears and down his neck. Chris can’t help glancing at the door, hoping he might still be there. He’s not. Finally giving in to his thoughts, he finds himself willing the stranger to return, and promising himself he’ll ask him where he had to be, that he should leave without saying goodbye.


	2. 2

Tuesday morning, four twenty-three a.m; Josh wakes with a gasp, limbs spasming in an unconscious battle with the heavy quilt pinning him to the mattress. Sweat collects at his hairline, dark eyes wide as they stare helplessly into the blackness above him. His mouth hangs open uselessly. Stilling, his breath slowing, he glances around the room like an animal in headlights, trying to make sense of the grotesque shadows filling his peripherals. To the left, tall shadowy figures, stretched thin between the floor and ceiling, loom over his bed, watching him with their featureless faces. They billow slightly, though he can barely make out where they end and the walls begin. To the right, some sort of beast, crouched, poised to attack. It’s growling, a low, guttural hum, and Josh finds himself shrinking further into the bed in fear, tucking his arms under the sheets in a feeble attempt at defending himself. The creature grows; two bright, piercing eyes blink in the darkness, scanning the room until they fixate on him. It swells as it stands, shifting closer with heavy footsteps that resonate through the walls. Suddenly Josh feels the sheets tighten around his body, binding him to the bed’s metal frame. He struggles, trying to slip out but they’re still shrinking around him, until the hem of the quilt is wrapped around his throat, like two rough hands throttling him; he tries to scream, but manages no more than a strangled gargle.

“No… no, no no...” The floor pounds as the creature closes in, leaning over his small frame, it’s putrid breath filling the space between their faces. Two gigantic hands reach for him, tear the choking sheets from his trembling body; he screams now, more a shriek than a cry for help, and claws his way off the side of the bed. “Get away!"

Hitting the floor with a weighty thud, Josh realises the room has become lighter. He finds himself staring at the legs of the bedside table, where the glowing lamp is sat like a beacon of hope.

Josh closes his eyes, realising he’s safe. Another bad dream. He’s glad he chose to sleep with the light on again.

Hauling himself off the ground in a tangle of bed covers, he winces, stretching out his arm. That’ll bruise, he thinks, and makes a mental note to wear long sleeves again. Checking the clock, he’s pleased to find it’s actually quarter to six. As the nightmare ebbs away, Josh resolves to have a good day. It’s been a long time since he’s slept until past five a.m.

Without making the bed, he wanders through his new apartment, feeling slightly out of sync with the rest of the world. The walnut floors are cold beneath his bare feet, but his bathrobe is where he left it, draped over the couch in the middle of the lounge. He pulls it on over his t-shirt and boxer combo, letting it hang loose as he bypasses his laptop in favour of the coffee machine at the other end of the room. Walnut becomes marble, colder still, so Josh opts to sit on the counter as the machine works it’s magic, drinking orange juice out of the bottle whilst he waits. The toaster pops, and he makes his way back around the breakfast bar with his mug and spelt toast.

‘It’s good for you,’ his agent says. Personally, Josh thinks it’s disgusting, but that doesn’t matter much, considering he’s probably not going to eat it anyway.

He opens his laptop. Last night’s forced dribble glares back at him from the screen. He groans out loud as he reads the passage back to himself. Files it in the trash folder. Takes a bite of his gross toast. Sips at his coffee.

Should really get a bigger mug, he tells himself. An hour and forty minutes later, he’s had three more cups, and he’s still staring at the blank canvas on his computer screen. It’s begging to be written on, and he’s tried, but nothing comes.

I hate you, Josh types, sniffing in amusement as he reads it back. Why can’t you write anything?

 

Another mindless bite of nasty spelt. Two weeks in this end-of-the-line mountain town and he’s already missing L.A. like a bad ex-girlfriend. Like California never hurt him, or at least he’s willing to put it behind him, if he and California could just try again.

There’s always the coffee shop, Josh reminds himself.

Josh doesn’t really like the coffee shop. Too small for his tastes. Too dark, with more furniture than he thinks any public space should be legally allowed in such a cramped floor space. He doesn’t like the tall bookshelves, packed with books of all sorts, new and old, poor titles and quality reading crammed together with no respect or hierarchy to the order of the titles. They’re dusty, too. He hates books; hates how the dust sticks to the pages, hates the smell of old paper and the thought of pages unturned for years. The whole room is messy and uncomfortable, like his chaotic mind. If he had the mind to, he knows he could kill days in there, clearing the shelves of all their worthless knick-knacks, ordering the shelves by genre and author. He’s sure the room would look better with more light. Less tables. Less colours. More like his apartment, empty, minimal, everything in chrome and shades of black and grey.

But he’s got to get out of the apartment. No one ever wrote a good book from the comfort of their own couch, he thinks, forcing himself up.

Despite not really liking the coffee shop, it’s a good place to write. Puts him in a different mind space. And he’s got a lot of work to catch up on.

He showers, dresses - striped tee with sleeves past his fingers, black jeans, boots - and stuffs his laptop into it’s bag. Stops to make the bed, wash his dishes, throw away the detestable remains of the cold spelt toast. Pulls his hat on as he steps out of the big green door of his apartment, because Blackwood Pines is practically polar in comparison to Burbank.

It’s a few minutes past nine by the time Josh leaves the apartment block, and he’s missed the bus into town. He’ll walk, but he’s frustrated, because that’s the second time this week. There’s a thin skin of snow on the pavements, crunching under the tread of his boots. He shivers. Not t-shirt weather. But at least the bitter air might clear his head.

\- -

“Take-away cappuccino for Frankie!”

Chris watches Ashley mindlessly as she waves the paper cup over the counter, looking for it’s owner. He’s leaning on the counter on his elbows, face planted firmly in his palms.

Four days have passed since the guy in the plaid shirt stopped by, and he’s trying to resist pining over him. Chris has to constantly remind himself that he doesn’t even know the guy - didn’t even speak to him even, not really - and that he should really let it go. There have been plenty of cute guys in and out of the coffee shop since that afternoon. One of them even made eyes at him.

Although Chris didn’t realise that was what was happening until ten minutes later, after the guy had left. But surely, that had nothing to do with Plaid Shirt. Or Josh, as Ashley had called him. He didn’t believe she actually knew his name.

She hadn’t been any help at all - in fact, Chris reckoned she was purposefully making it more frustrating for him, bringing it up every time they had moment of quiet.

“So that guy,” she starts again, as ‘Frankie’ claims her drink.

“What guy?” Chris asks with feigned ignorance. She pulls a knowing face at him. “There’s no guy, Ash.”

“Sure, sure,” She gets out her phone, idly flicking through it.

Chris narrows his eyes suspiciously, tapping his fingers against the counter until he can’t take it anymore. “You don’t have his number somehow, do you?”

She snickers and shakes her head. “No, but I wish I did. For everyone’s sake. You’ve been like a lost puppy since the first day you saw him. Admit it, you wish he’d come and take you home. Give you a scratch behind the ears.”

Rolling his eyes, Chris pushes himself away from the counter, raising his hands as she starts to laugh at him. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response, Ash.”

He has to resist jerking his head around when the door rattles.

It’s not Josh. Instead, it’s Chris’ biggest fans. There are three of them today, dressed impeccably as always in silk scarves and button-down coats, topped with wide, eager smiles on painted pink lips. They shuffle towards the counter, purses in hand and Chris greets them with his best smile, one hand half-raised in a welcoming wave.

“Ladies,” he says in his most charming voice, leaning back on the counter on one elbow. “Looking stunning today, I see. Are you pretty young gals allowed in here without an escort?”

The three old dears giggle away.

“Oh, Christopher,” one of them says, taking off her gloves and tucking them neatly into her handbag. “You’re such a charmer. You know, forty years ago I would have just died to know a nice boy like you.”

Chris beams. “I would have been lucky to have you, Edna,” He winks, and takes great pride in the roar of laughter that follows. “Your late husband had no idea how lucky he was. What can I get for you today?”

Ashley is nearly losing her head trying not to laugh behind him. She’s turned away, but Chris can see her shoulders shaking in the reflection on the coffee machine, and she’s got a hand over her mouth.

“What’s your problem?” he says, nudging her with an elbow when he turns around to fetch the milk. “Never been in the presence of a ladykiller before?”

“Oh god,” she says, wrapping an arm around her gut. “Stop it, it hurts.”

“Boo ya. I’m a hit, no denying it. Modern Casanova.”

The ladies pick their table, but Chris isn’t done showing off. Swooping under the counter and picking up their tray of coffees on the way past, he snakes through the other patrons and over to their seats. Doesn’t notice the door go again.

With his one free hand, he helps each of the women sit down.

“I’d rather be sweeping you off your feet,” he teases playfully, “but I’ll settle for helping you into your seats.”

Doesn’t see Josh watching him from the doorway.

“Christopher!” Another says, playfully swatting his wrist. She must be in her eighties, he thinks, at least. He adores being flavor of the week with these old dears. “I’m sure you could sweep me off my feet, you strong young thing.”

“I have been working on it, Betty. Thank _you_ for noticing.”

By the time he’s distributed their order and turned around, Josh is looking at him with mocking eyes, a huge smirk plastered to his face.

Chris goes red from head to toe.

He looks the guy up and down and decides instantly that likes Josh in stripes. The outfit looks ridiculously unsuitable for the freezing temperatures outside; Chris wouldn’t dream of wearing less than four layers out in the Siberian cold of Blackwood Pines in early fall. He’ll offer him a hot drink on the house, Chris thinks, dumb smile forming on his face.

“What can I get you?”

Dammit, Ashley.

His one chance to speak to the guy. But he’s back, back in their coffee shop for the second time in a week. This, Chris tells himself, could be the start of something. Regular visits. A ‘usual’ order. He’s more excited than he should be. Coffee, the way he likes it, and a food order perhaps. They could have it ready for him before he arrived everyday.

Chris knows he’s getting a little ahead of himself, but it’s not until Josh passes him, throwing a hello his way, and goes to sit down that Chris realizes he’s been dumbstruck for the last two or three minutes. He’s still holding the empty tray in one hand, just hovering on the spot. He musters a weak smile back at Josh as he passes. Gives Ashley an extremely grumpy look.

Four days, he’s been planning that greeting. Nothing in his life ever goes to plan...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to anyone who has ever had writer's block, and I'm sorry it took so long.

An hour passes, and Lenore becomes busy. Josh sits in the same corner as before, not looking up from his laptop. His lanky body is curled like a pretzel in his chair, one foot dangling from the side, tapping the table leg to the beat of his typing. His fingers dance across the keys, spiralling into the world he's creating, and he’s momentarily unaware of everything around him save the crowding bookshelves and low light. 

_My knife sliced through the girl’s arm, drawing pretty patterns in her ivory skin as her screams rang through the derelict house, thick swabs of blood dripping in heavy droplets from the wound. They soaked into her shirt like a dirty stain on her soul. I knew what she was thinking - that she should not be there; had she only paid mind to the warnings she’d brushed off so easily, perhaps she never would have walked through my door._

_Her body hung heavily from the restraints I’d used to keep her bound to the wall, her wrists sore from the pressure, surely already black and blue. I could bet the girl thought of her mother then, and of the happy times they had shared. She wouldn’t be able to shake the image of her mother’s crying face, her thoughts dark with the knowledge they’d never have the chance to reconcile their pain. My imagination drank up the fantasy. She carried the weight of her mistakes like a burden on her back._

He's consumed by his words, each one igniting his mind, pure creative ecstasy. Josh feels as though his own blood is escaping his veins and pouring onto the page. He's enthralled. Beside his computer, his coffee cup sits half-empty, chilling in the late morning air.

 

On the other hand, Chris has been worked off his feet. More than half of the orders were take out, but between him and Ashley, they still didn't have enough time to clear the tables for the customers who wanted to sit in. The constant flow of customers is unusual for a weekday. As soon as he gets a minute, Chris relaxes against the back wall, letting out a long breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in.

“This is manic,” he stresses, throwing his hands up. He almost drops the cleaning rag in his hand out of sheer exhaustion, and fumbles to catch it before it ends up on the floor. Groaning, his cheeks fluster a little. “Is something going on in town we don’t know about? I need at least three days notice on this sort of thing."

Ashley snickers wildly as she serves up two drinks for a couple of regulars who have managed to clear space for themselves. “Wanna be the one to tell the boss we’re understaffed? Because I sure don’t.”

He shakes his head. Bringing anything up with the owner is pretty trying, because he’s not a trusting man. At least on Saturdays, the three of them he does have hired are all on shift together. “Maybe we can write him a letter. Stage a protest about it. What do we want? People to leave us alone! When do we want it? Always!”

Raising a fist and shaking it as he barks his demands, Chris’ smile soon turns into another groan as the bell goes again. “I swear, there aren’t even this many people in Blackwood.”

“Go clear the tables, loser. I think it’s getting quieter.”

With a big, mocking grin, Ashley winks at him and turns her attention back to the bar.

 

Reaching a natural break in his chapter, Josh realizes he’s been hunched over, his back aching from the tenseness of his writing pose. He sighs, arching it and stretching out as he relaxes back into the chair. He blinks warily at the screen, his tired eyes adjusting to the natural light of the room. Reaches for his coffee, not noticing the chill of the porcelain as he brings it to his lips. As he takes a gulp, his face screws up in disgust at it’s tepidness, and he almost throws it back down on the table.

His sudden movement catches Chris attention.

“You alright, buddy?” he says, balancing a stack of cups and dirty plates in one hand as he wipes down a particularly stick table. His heart thuds in his chest as he speaks, and he curses his lack of control over his feelings. It sounds lame even as he says it – he’d planned 

Josh grimaces and rubs a hand over his face. “Just… it’s gone cold.”

With a chuckle, Chris walks over and picks up the offending cup, stacking it on top of the others. “Coffee tends to do that after a number of hours pass.”

It takes Chris a moment to register that the blank look on Josh’s face isn’t because he doesn’t know that coffee can go cold, although he looks like the kind of guy whose never left a coffee un-drunk for long enough for it to cool down. Now, studying his face up close, he can see dark circles under Josh’s eyes, slightly sunken from lack of sleep, and telltale blotches of red in the whites of his eyes. He’s not just tired – he’s physically exhausted. Chris tries not to frown. It wouldn’t be good form. But he’s almost tempted to ask if he’d rather come back to his dorm for a nap.

He bites his tongue.

“It’s past twelve,” he says instead.

Eyes darting to the clock on this laptop screen, Josh actually leans away in surprise. Two and a half hours of writing without stopping – it’s a personal best, at least for the past year. “I… hadn’t noticed.” A half-smile. “Get a little carried away sometimes.”

“Writing something?” Chris asks politely, shutting down the little voice in his head that starts to worry about the strange, sleep-deprived boy in front of him.

Josh pushes the laptop closed, hiding his screen. His lips pull tight as he looks back at Chris accusingly. “It’s an assignment. Due soon.”

It’s not a complete lie.

“Oh, you’re a student?” Chris says. “Haven’t seen you around the college before. I am a freshman, though.”

“Mmm.”

Disappointing response. Hovering on the spot, Chris scrapes for something to keep the conversation going. He doesn’t want this moment to be over, not just yet.

“Nice laptop,” he blurts out. “C720 or 720P? There’s a place around the corner where you can pick up a killer SSD upgrade for those things. It’s about fifty bucks, but you can install it yourself and then you’ve got a monster piece of kit, and you can do a lot more with it offline, if you need something like that.”

Chris realizes as he starts to talk how ridiculous he probably looks. He’s talking jargon and wearing an apron. He’s carrying a pile of dirty crockery. He hasn’t even offered the poor guy another drink. His face flusters, because Josh is looking at him, eyes lit up with amusement, and he doesn’t think he’s said something so ridiculous before. “Anyway, I’ll get you a refill, on the house. Black, right?”

“Yeah,” Josh says, and watches Chris scurry off like an embarrassed child. He realizes he’s started to smile, and quickly wipes it off his face. Reminds himself that he doesn’t even like this coffee shop, or it’s cold coffee.

 

“Did you see that?” Chris hisses to Ashley as he carries the crockery back behind the bar. She’s serving a customer, but still finds the time to glance over at him, her smug face telling him she saw every second of it. He curses himself as he finally dumps everything into the sink, taking the time to stack them in the dishwasher whilst he’s got a chance.

Finishing up serving, Ashley turns to him. “So are you completely embarrassed, or would you like me to make it worse?”

“How could you possibly make it worse?” Chris scoffs back, shaking his head and stacking the dishes with more vigor than was called for. “He needs another coffee. Please, Ashley. Please take it over there.”

“Why, so he can be made fully aware that you know you’re a bumbling idiot?”

Shaking his head, Chris gives her the most pleading look he can muster. She’s probably right, but it’s more important that he doesn’t end up making himself look like more of an idiot than he already does. “Come on, Ash. Do this one thing for me. I’ll be indebted to you.”

That makes her grin wider than Chris is comfortable with. “And I can call you on it whenever I want?”

“Yes, okay?” Probably a mistake. “Just make him a coffee and allow me to hide here and be swallowed whole in the ocean of ridiculousness that is my life.”

Ashley squeezes his shoulder, holding back a laugh as she whips up another coffee. Chris fidgets behind her, trying to avoid looking in Josh’s direction in case he’s still laughing at him. He wishes the ground would swallow him up.

“You shouldn’t let it get to you so much. Surely you know you’re a complete dork by now. Everyone else does,” Ashley says idly as she waits for the machine to work its magic. “Also, I thought you had a class on Tuesday afternoons?”

Shit. Looking up at the clock, Chris realizes she’s right. When he’d told Josh it was past twelve, it hadn’t even occurred to him he had a lecture at one. It probably would have taken him the next guy turning up for shift to notice if Ashley hadn’t said anything.

“Saved by the bell,” he sighs in relief. “Or rather, ‘I’m going to be fucking late, so bye’. Sorry.”

Ashley brushes him off with a wave as he starts to gather his things.

 

When he opens his laptop again to read the words he’s spent the last two hours writing, Josh realizes he hates all of it. Every line. His heroine wouldn’t fall victim to a trap like that, not so easily. At least she shouldn’t, not in this book. She’s been through a lot, and she’s supposedly learned from it. All of this shit he’s written, he thinks, is pure trash. 

His story is bland. 

Josh selects everything on the page, and hovers his finger over the backspace. He peeks over the back of the armchair at the barista who made him smile. Stabs his finger down, eyes growing dark with frustration, and deletes every word he’s written.

The story is supposed to be about a young woman, a survivor of a trauma, overcoming another horrific night at the mercy of supernatural forces; a sequel to his bestseller 'Hook, Line and Sinker'. That’s what he’d agreed with the people with the money. That was his idea, his baby. He shaped it out for days in endless notebooks and scraps of paper in his pocket. They’d talked about it for weeks and he was halfway there.

Now he has to start it all again.

He begins to type. 

_The blade of my knife sliced delicately through the flesh of its victim--_

_My knife caught the light as it-_

It’s just not coming. He sighs deeply; there’s another story aching to come to life. Josh knows he shouldn’t, but writing anything is better than writing nothing at all. His publisher is going to kill him for this.

_Seated in an armchair, consumed in the warm glow of the coffee shop’s welcoming lights, I found myself unexpectedly drawn to the handsome four-eyed barista, his charmingly awkward movements like a dance of innocence as he swabbed around the shop, carrying out his duties with a flustered face._

_I couldn’t put my finger on what had me this way. All I knew was that every time he smiled, I felt my armor crack._

He’s interrupted by the other barista, and quickly lowers his screen again. Gives her a curt smile. Josh is sure he recognizes her from somewhere, but he can’t put his finger on it. It wouldn’t make sense anyway, because this is the first time he’s been back to Blackwood Pines in years and he’s not made any friends yet. Or wanted to.

She smiles back. “One black coffee, large enough to swim in. That’s what you said this morning, right?”

Josh chuckles politely and nods, accepting it gratefully. He needs it. He casts a glance over to the counter in time to see his new muse darting under it and towards the door. The bell rings violently as he hurries out into the snow.

“His shift is over,” Ashley offers as explanation, watching Chris go. “and he’s late for class. Otherwise I’m sure he would have brought this over himself. _Surely_.”

Frowning slightly, Josh shrugs. Takes a sip, reveling in the warmth of the steam coming off his drink. “It’s okay. You make good coffee.”

The throwaway comment puts a big smile on Ashley’s face. “Thank you. Maybe I’ve got a lifelong career in it?”

A quick questioning look prompts her to go on. “I’m a Creative Writing major,” she explains, shrugging her shoulders. “So obviously I’m not going to make any money doing that. Might as well commit to working a terrible job whilst I’m ahead in the game.”

Josh actually laughs at this, albeit abruptly. “No,” he says softly. “I think you should go for it. Why not?”

Shaking her head, she shrugs. “You’re a sweetheart. Enjoy your drink.”

Ashley goes to turn away, but an idea forms in her head, and it sticks immediately. A wicked grin crosses her face; she’s quick to suppress it as she spins on her heel to face Josh once again.

She’s prepared for the fact she’s about to do more harm than good.

“You know my buddy? His name is Chris. And he’s a chickenshit. But he really–” Grabbing her order pad from the pocket of her apron, Ashley scribbles across it quickly and tears the sheet off, folding it up and holding it out to Josh. He takes it curiously. “Wanted to give you this. So enjoy.”

Ashley grins, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet before zipping away from the table again. Josh watches her go, confusion written all over his face, before finally looking down at the scrap of paper. He unfolds it.

On the paper is a phone number, and a little doodle of a pair of glasses.


	4. Chapter 4

The crumpled piece of paper in Josh’s hoodie pocket weighs heavily on his mind. When he arrives home, he throws his hoodie off and over the arm of the couch, but quickly retrieves the scribbled number and places it instead in the pocket of his jeans, reaching into his pocket to feel his fingers against the torn page like his life depends on it’s existence. When he’s done for the night, his jeans head into the washing machine, but as he watches the drum begin to rotate, he realizes his mistake and nearly breaks the damn thing trying to get inside. When he does get to the note it’s just about in tact, readable but worn down, as if he’s been holding onto it for a hundred years without making contact.

Of course, it’s all in vain. Josh is never going to call.

His sweet, handsome barista deserves better than to spend time with him. Chris seems like a wonderful person - a little too far on the wrong side of loser, but that’s just the kind of person Josh likes to be around. He’s spent his whole life socializing with the upper end of society; the rich, the famous, and the thoroughbreds. The pureblood’s and the nouveau riche are all alike when you put them in a room with photographers and canapés. Once upon a time he told himself he’d never be like that, never live in that world, but that was before his first book hit the top of the Forbes list.

However else he feels, it’s better now he’s thrown it all away. Even if his father will never forgive him for it. It's why he’s found himself on this godforsaken mountain in the first place; it’s all been labelled and archived under _recovery_ and _recuperation_ but Josh is quite aware that his new home in Blackwood Pines was intended as a punishment, a prison with no walls.

Which is just why a nice guy like Chris the Barista needs to be kept at arms length. Josh doesn’t need to be dragging down anyone else with him on his long walk to hell.

Yet there it is. Seven digits and a doodle and a whole lot of emotions he isn’t prepared to consider just yet. At one point, he picks up his home phone - the one only Dr. Hill and his mother ever call on - and punches in the cell number, but as soon as he does so, the doubt sets in.

The good doctor calls them N.A.T.s, _Negative Automatic Thoughts_ , but Josh just calls them the honest truth. There’s no point trying to deny it.

After all can he really trust the redhead? Did Chris really want him to have his number? Why would he? Josh is the strange, silent writer who doesn’t look up from his screen long enough to drink his coffee in a damn coffee shop. His face is a wreck from three weeks of waking up hours before the sun without fail, and he’s got the resting expression of angry wildcat. Honestly, he should be avoided at all costs and besides, Josh has barely said a word to the guy, not even when he’s been spoken to.

Making a mental note to try for a conversation when - if - he goes back to Lenore, Josh goes to bed before midnight and spends the next five hours staring at the ceiling, playing out his new story in his head over and over. He butchers the narrative in an endless flow of self-criticism and subjective review; just another of his many talents. It’s a wonder he’s ever published a book at all.

 

The next morning, Chris finds himself fifteen minutes late, rushing around with his satchel in one hand and one shoe on, looking desperately for his keys. His expression is one of utter panic as he throws cushions off the couch, pats under furniture, and digs through drawers that he’s sure he’s never been in before just in case. The front door opens just as he resorts to opening the pan cupboard - by this point, he’s even open to believing there are some sort of Borrowers style thieves living in the apartment walls.

“You’re in late,” Mike says, face a touch flustered and very slightly damp with sweat as he steps inside; besides this and the outfit of long shorts and an under armor vest, anyone would be forgiven for thinking he’s been for a light walk rather than a six mile run. “You alright, buddy?"

“No,” Chris hisses more harshly than Mike deserves, pans clattering together as he slams the cupboard door shut. “Can’t find my goddamn keys, can I? And I’m late for class. I think I’m going to scream."

When he looks around, Mike has one eyebrow raised and a very patronizing look on his face. Chris recoils defensively, huffing at his roommate dramatically.

“What coat did you have on yesterday?” Mike asks, and Chris is suddenly acutely aware that he’s about to look like an idiot.

Opening his mouth to answer, he falls short and his jaw hangs open. Not his blue parker. He checked that, but of course they weren’t in there. Yesterday was the only day he hadn’t worn a coat this week.

“Shit, Mike,” he says with a theatrical sigh. He’s heads back to his bedroom, talking loudly over his shoulder the whole time, and digs through yesterday’s clothes for his army green sweater. It’s got more pockets than fabric. Of course that’s where the stupid keys are. “I’m going to be so late! I’ve missed my bus for sure. Do you have any idea how many lectures I’ve been late to already because of work? They’re going to throw me out, I swear. My parents won’t take me back and I’ll be living on the streets eating out of a trash can.”

Following Chris to his room, Mike hangs in the doorway, his arms flexing as he grips the frame. Chris catches an eyeful and inhales sharply. He has no idea how Mike manages to smolder like that without trying, but he wishes he wouldn’t. It’s not easy being around such an attractive, entirely straight man – especially not when he has to listen to stories of Mike’s escapades at the end of every weekend.

“Do you need a ride over?”

Chris raises an eyebrow, clutching the keys triumphantly as he stands up. “You know, I could kiss you right now.”

“Please don’t,” Mike sniffs. “Hurry up before I change my mind, okay?”

 

The drive over to the college is fairly long; their apartment is not in a bad area of town, because Blackwood Pines does not have bad areas – but they opted to live further out. It’s been more important to Chris to get to work quickly than college, even if it’s coming back on him after several months. Mike doesn’t walk anywhere, so it works for them.

Except that the local bus service is sporadic at best.

It’s fine because riding in Mike’s truck is more than comfortable and the two of them haven’t had much time to catch up. Regardless of how grumpy his roommate can be, they’ve become decent friends over the short time they’ve known one another.

“So, how’s the girlfriend?” Chris asks tentatively as they near the college. He’s not holding his breath for their relationship to work out. It’s not clear who has been suffering the most in their historically difficult relationship, but Chris has tried his best not to make bets over who will break up with the other first. He really has. There’s just the one with Ashley, and there’s not even that much money in it. “Getting down and dirty yet?” 

“No, she’s still holding out on me,” Mike huffs, but there’s a playful smile on his face. “She’s completely mad at me for checking that other girl out in public. I’m getting bad vibes off it like… I think it may have been a mistake. I know that’s a crazy suggestion, because the opposite doesn’t apply to Emily and the rest of the football team.”

“Totally crazy,” Chris laughs. “You know how I feel. You two are terrible for each other.”

He bet on Mike breaking up with Em. Ashley made him promise not to influence the situation but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. He wants that ten bucks.

“You know how it is,” Mike chuckles, pulling into the parking lot. “I love her, man. I just wish she’d shut her cakehole.”

Some days Chris thinks Mike is never going to figure out that there’s something wrong with that. But he’s not the best guy to be giving love advice in any case. He’s falling rapidly for a silent stranger who buys coffee he doesn’t drink and doesn’t even give Chris the time of day. He can’t say a thing.

Hours later when he reaches Lenore for the afternoon shift, he’s disappointed to find neither Josh or Ashley are there.

“Dude, Matt?” he says in surprise as he walks into the shop. “I didn’t think you were working this afternoon. Where’s Ash?”

Matt looks up from the coffee machine with a dopey smile and shrug. “She said she had a thing. I didn’t ask. I wasn’t going to turn down the hours.”

Disappointed, Chris throws his bag down behind the counter and spends the rest of the afternoon scowling through his best Customer Service smile.

 

Across the city, Josh kicks his feet anxiously, seated in the hard leather couch of the waiting room at the Pines Hospital psychiatric department. It doubles as a private clinic for his latest shrink, although Josh isn’t sure how he feels about that yet. He’s very used to the plush, luxury offices of his doctor’s in L.A. The off-cream walls and dated, worn-out furniture of the clinic remind him of a scene out of one of his books, and Josh starts to fill in the gaps in his surrounds in with his mind. Before long, he can see flies on every surface, and blood gushing down the corridor towards him in the terrifying fashion of Stephen King’s _The Shining_ ; he expects, almost hopes, to drown as it starts to fill the waiting room from floor up.

Dr. Hill’s door opens, tearing him from his imaginary hell. As he clocks the patient leaving the room, Josh’s eyes shoot open wide.

“Redhead barista girl?”

Ashley looks around in concern, offering him a half-smile in greeting when she sees who he is. “Hi there. And it’s Ashley, by the way.”

So she’s here, and she knows he’s here. It throws a spanner in the works, but Josh can live with it. After all, more than half of America is in therapy for something or other.

“Josh,” he mumbles back. Her smile widens.

“I know,” Ashley says, wringing the strap of her bag in her hands. “Did you call him yet? I’m guessing no, otherwise I’d be hearing about it.”

Biting his lip, Josh shakes his head, his foot tapping even more furiously as he struggles to meet her knowing gaze. How does she already know his name? He’s sure he never told her. Is she following him?

“Too bad. He really wants you to,” Ashley teases. “Whatever you’re in for, I hope it’s getting better.”

Just as she goes to leave, the consultation room door opens again, and Dr. Hill steps out. “Josh Washington,” he calls, voice wavering as he spots Josh curled into himself awkwardly on the couch. “Come on in, kiddo.”

His eyes dart between the doctor and Ashley, and Josh feels his chest seize up a little, because he doesn’t like people knowing who he is. The last thing he sees as she slips out of the practice door is the soft, reassuring smile on her face. Perhaps this won’t be such an awful thing.

 

It’s two days and three ferocious arguments with his agent over the phone before Josh visits the coffee shop again. The publishing house wants his first draft as soon as possible; in his agent’s words, last week is not soon enough. If Josh has to write solidly for the next week without eating or sleeping, Nick could care less. He’s getting that draft. As frustrating as he is to listen to, Josh knows it’s why he hired the guy – most of his other agents couldn’t handle him the way Nick can. He doesn’t respond well to kiddy gloves.

When he starts threatening to come to Blackwood and collect the damn thing in person, Josh swears he’ll have something out to him by Saturday afternoon.

Intent on getting something done, Josh packs up his laptop and heads for Lenore like he’s going into battle – not missing the bus this time – with a new surge of determination. He watches the small town fly by through bus window, the quiets streets packed full of independent shops and cafes, and wonders if this would have gone differently if he’d chosen a different place to write.

 

Chris is slumped in his favourite chair so absorbed in his book that he doesn’t move a muscle as the bell goes. Matt’s got the counter, and Ashley will be in shortly to take over when he’s got to run off to class. He’ll take every chance he can get to read, because he’s been devouring this title for days on end and he can’t bear to put it down. Like all of J. W. Lincoln’s other books, Hook, Line and Sinker is already right up there with Chris’ all-time favourites.

It’s not until a shadow falls over him, blocking his light, that Chris shakes himself from his intense captivation with the pages. He looks up innocently, ready to tell the customer he’s on break, and to bother his colleague.

Hair under that infernal beanie, hands slung in the deep pockets of his oversized black hoodie, Josh stares down at him with a distant, troubled expression.

“Hi there,” Chris says in surprise. “So I guess I didn’t scare you off with my techno rambling the other day.”

Josh smiles awkwardly down at him, a twisted, dithering expression somewhere between amusement and frustration. “Nothing like that.”

“Good, good,” Chris dithers, trying to decide if Josh is worth putting his book down for. He glances at it and back to the older boy, and quickly folds the corner of his page to mark his place. “We missed you around here.”

“Really?” Josh says disbelievingly, raising his eyebrows at Chris. He sniffs in amusement and balls his fists up in his pockets as his eyes drift over to the book cover. “You shouldn’t be reading that trash, you know.”

Chris draws back in surprise. “This? I’m really enjoying it, actually. You’re not a Lincoln fan, I’m guessing.”

“It’s utter shit,” Josh huffs, taking the book from Chris’ hand and turning it over to eye the blurb. “A complete waste of your time and money. The writing is awful and the plot is weak and it never should have been published.”

“Tell that to the bestsellers list,” Chris says defensively, holding his hand expectantly for Josh to give the novel back. He’s a little shocked; he’s never come across anyone who doesn’t like the author, or anyone who’s ever been so harsh about a book he’s reading before. Josh doesn’t seem like the type, but Chris supposes he doesn’t know the guy at all. He just seemed like a nicer person. “I’m actually a huge fan of Lincoln’s work. Sorry if you aren’t. But that’s a little uncalled for.”

Grinding his teeth slightly, Josh finds himself sneering at the book as he all but chucks it back down into Chris’ hand, feeling a familiar sense of anger bubble up inside him. “Whatever. Waste your time reading it if you want. I don’t care.”

“Everything okay, Chris?” Matt calls over the counter, eyeing the two of them suspiciously.

“Yeah, I… I think?” Chris says hesitantly, wondering what he’s done to offend their regular customer so badly. Surely, it can’t be over a stupid book. He smiles apologetically at Josh, putting the book aside. “Look, I’ll put it down if it’s upsetting you somehow–”

“Forget it,” Josh mutters, and turns on his heel. He leaves Chris behind him as he hurries back towards the door, paying no mind to Ashley coming in as he leaves. She calls after him, but it falls on deaf ears as he pulls up his hood and stalks away.

Ashley looks from the door to Chris, who shrugs his shoulders helplessly. “I didn’t do anything,” he says, a little crestfallen. “I swear.”


End file.
